


Hellmouth Living

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat





	1. 58-Down

“Spike?”

“Hmm?”  Damned Sunday crossword puzzles.

“I’m horny.”

Pause.  “So?”

“So?”  Accurate imitation of aghast consternation.  Someone else might’ve been fooled.  Spike penned in 24-down.

“Yeah.  So?”

“So, you’re  _supposed_  to be my boyfriend.”

“Oh, right.  So I am.”  Tilting his chair back, he felt underneath the appropriate cabinet and pulled out the mag he’d picked up a few days ago.  “Here,” he offered, tossing it across the table.

The resulting stare was audible.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“This is a gay magazine.  About, er, really skinny boys?”

“Twinks,” Spike supplied helpfully.

“Right.  Really skinny boys are called twinks.”  Sounds of pages being leafed through.  A single heart started pumping faster.  “Why do we have this?”

“Thought you might like it.”

More audible staring.  “You thought I’d like a gay porn-mag about twinks?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why?”

Spike put down his pen and paper and shrugged out of his t-shirt.  “I thought you might like it,” he repeated as he took up the puzzle again.

This time the staring was palpable.  Such a talented boy, his Xander was.

“Erk,” was the coherent response.

“M’sorry?”  What the bloody hell did ‘that girl’ reference to?  Unless it was a song title. . . or maybe a book?

Quiet, crinkling sounds of a magazine being perused.  Occasional pausing, but Spike was fairly certain whiskey-dark eyes were not looking at glossy, airbrushed photos.  Well, not  _much_ , anyway.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re evil.”

“Keep tellin’ you lot that.  Don’t know why you never believe me.”

“The Transformers boxers make it difficult.”

“Hm.  Sorry ’bout that.”  It took some shifting and some squirming, but Spike managed to wriggle out of said boxers without releasing pen and paper a second time.  “Now m’I evil?”

“Murphlitz.”

Very, very occasional sounds of highly treated paper being moved and much more audible staring.  Also, ragged breathing.

“Oh, fine,” Spike said when the staring became glaring.  “C’mere.”

He placed the paper on the table so that if he hunched just a little, he could still write on it.  When a large body  _whumped_  beside him, practically vibrating in eagerness, he almost turned to glare himself.  “Watch it,” he snapped.  “I’ve got a system.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and the damned crossword puzzle.  I’m  _horny_ , Spike!”

Which Spike could well see, out of the corner of his eye: tall and proud and already dripping.  “And, again, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.  I’m rather busy.”

“Spiiiiike!  You’re my  _boyfriend._   You’re supposed to take  _care_  of me.”  What, did he take lessons from Dawn?  Or maybe stand around and listen to the saws to get that perfect pitch to make skulls rattle?

Sighing, Spike let his right hand drop into a squirming lap.  “Demanding little pillock, aren’t you?”

“Nyahh!”

Keeping a tight, fierce rhythm—and wasn’t he glad that he was ambidextrous at everything but writing?—Spike tried very hard not to smile.  Harsh, gasping breaths were heaved next to him, a warm body occasionally bumping his own as it jerked and twitched mindlessly.

“Is this what you wanted?” he inquired casually.  He had only three more clues.  Well, four, since 68-across was half-filled and probably wrong, anyway.

“Yuhuuuh.”  There were more attempts at words, but Spike was too busy to pay real attention to incoherent babbling.

He squeezed harder.

“Yeeeeeeahhhhhh!”

“Dammit!”  Spike held up his pen, glaring in distaste at the white fluid that dripped down it.  “How’m I supposed to write with  _this_ , now?”

The pen was plucked from his hand and brought up to full lips that curled just a little at the ends.  A few seconds later, the pen was handed back—still wet, but no longer white.

Spike stared at the pen.

“Xander?”

“Yeah, Spike?”  Breaths slowly stabilizing, heart rate still faster than usual.

“I’m horny.”

“And I’m supposed to care?”

“Well, you’re my boyfriend,” Spike pointed out logically.  Struck by sudden inspiration, he filled in 75-down.  Two more.

“Yeah, so?”

“Turn to page 23.”

The sound of rustling and then a sharply indrawn breath.  “There’s a word for, um, that?”

“Bear.”

“You think I’m a bear?!”

Spike glanced down significantly at his own torso and then his boyfriend’s.  “Look.  At.  Page.  Twenty.  Three.”

Silence.

“So, you’re horny?”

Spike licked at his wet right hand.

“Oh.  Okay.”  A large body slid underneath the table.  Sucking sounds competed with the random tapping of a pen on the table.

The last two questions were evil.  Positively evil.  The author of this puzzle had to be demonic.

“Did you mean like this?”  Lips pressed to flesh, voice vibrating along nerves.

The only response was the sound of paper crumpling.


	2. Nostalgia

“Spike?”

“Yes, pet?”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“Pet.”

Spike looked up from his newspaper.  “It’s an endearment,” he with the slow, deliberate speech usually reserved for three years olds.

“You use it on girls.”

“You’ve only  _seen_  me use it on—hey!  When’ve you seen me use it on girls!”

“You use it on Dawn.”  Smug grin tilting up at him, dark eyes sparkling black.

“An’ you’re jealous of a sixteen year old girl?  Out with it.”

“You’ve used it on Dru, too.”

“Which again brings up how you’ve ever heard me say  _anything_  t’Dru.  You’ve never  _seen_  her.”

“I have!  Twice!”

Spike carefully folded the newspaper and glared.  He was  _good_  at glaring, with his almost-black eyebrows contrasting with pale skin and paler hair.  Damn straight, he looked good.

“You look like a beetle when you do that.”

“Xander!”

“Oh, all right.  I kinda snuckinthewarehouseonetime.”

“You what.”

“Right after Halloween.”  The dopey grin didn’t work its usual magic and Spike crossed his arms over his bare chest.  “I saw you and Dru together.  You called her, um, your ‘ripe, wicked plum’.  And, can I say  _ew?_   You compared her to a piece of fruit!”

“I compare you to a bloody chunk of rock.  You’re as sodding dense.”

“Hey!  I resemble that remark!”

Spike snorted his agreement.  “Do you know how stupid that was?  I could’ve hurt you!”

“Spike, it was years ago.  Besides, you didn’t.  You didn’t even know I was there.”

“Or  _Dru_  could’ve seen you and—did you say  _twice?”_

Another attempt at the ‘I’m-too-cute-to-hurt’ grin.  It still wasn’t working.  “Yes?”

Spike glared harder.

“Remember the botched love-spell?  Dru thought that, and I quote, I had a face ‘like a poem’.  She saved me from Angelus, though.”  Brief pause.  “That was scary.  The needing to be saved and the saving parts.  Really scary.”

“You’re utterly barmy, you know that?”

“Cause I think Dru is scary?”

“You snuck into the  _warehouse_.  Alone, I’m guessin’, right after Halloween when I was more’n a bit chuffed at losin’ my chance at the Slayer, got my white arse whumped in the process and I went after Dru like—”

Long pause.  The I’m-too-cute smile had become something else entirely.

Spike ignored that for a moment.  “Then?  Even then you—?”

Xander leaned across the table and brushed vaguely syrup-y flavored lips against Spike’s.  “You’re stupid.”

Yeah, well, like that’d ever bothered him before.  He grinned.  “You did a very bad thing, pet.”

“Yeah.  Sneaking off without Buffy, not even letting Willow know.”  Another kiss.  “Wanting to see if my solider memories could do anything.”

“Mm, you look good in camouflage, luv.”

“Heh.  I couldn’t do anything, though.  Know why?”  That deep, husky voice was playing little tunes up and down Spike’s spine.  “I was stuck.  Frozen.  Couldn’t look away.”  Xander pushed his belly down onto the table, random objects skidding away as he slid-slithered over towards Spike.  “I’d never seen anyone  _take_  someone before.  The way you used her, taking everything you wanted.  It wasn’t making love.  Wasn’t even sex, although she seemed to enjoy it.  It was rutting.  Using someone else’s body to get off.  Fucking.”

“Oh, yeah.”  Fond memories, that.  Not the arse-kicking by the Slayer, but that night with Dru. . . the way he’d left her wanting, screeching on the bed to let her finish while Spike grabbed a few minions to beat on.

“She wanted it and you didn’t care,” Xander taunted.  “You  _used_  her.  You  _fucked_  her.”

Rough, male hands jerked him through the cloth of his boxers.  Spike let his head fall back, groaning.

“Did you even let her get wet?  Was she ready for you, when you threw her down on the bed and ripped off her clothes?  Did you care?”

Distantly, he was aware of one hand dropping away, but caught between Xander’s heavy heat in his lap and the memories in his head—what was the question again?

“I bet you didn’t,” Xander said directly in his ear and then disappeared.

“No—wai—umph!”  Face down on the table, it took a moment to realize the cold he felt on his dick wasn’t just the varnished wood.  “Xan—”

“Shut up, Spike.”

Then he pushed inside.

Spike screamed, unprepared for the entry but loving it anyway.  He babbled out his thanks, his praise while Xander pounded him into the table, the cockring making a scraping noises as it moved back and forth.  He was still incoherent when Xander filled him, pulled out, and left the room.

Spike grinned.

Fifteen minutes later, Xander came back.  “You didn’t move.”

“Can’t feel my legs.”  They were hanging in mid-air behind him, but that was about all he knew.  His entire world was focused on cock and arse.

“Oh, well.”  He was picked up—being so damned skinny had its perks—and hauled over to the living room.  Thrown onto the sofa, he was again fucked until he was a screaming, cramping, tensing mess of nerves.  Without coming.

“So you want me to be Dru, is it?” he gasped out.

Xander’s grins didn’t have to be seen—he could feel them on his skin, hear them through air that sung.  “I can be Dru tomorrow.  And you still need to punish me.”

Spike groaned and used every bit of his strength to sit up.  His cock was pointing towards the ceiling and funny colors as all his borrowed blood rested in that one part.  Forcing himself to sound dreamy as opposed to  _getthisringoffmeandletmefuckingcomerightnowyoubloodywanker_ , he said, “There’s fire in your eyes.”

Xander blinked.

Clearing his throat, Spike leaned forward and tried again.  “When I look in your eyes,” he rumbled, sliding down to kneel between Xander’s wide-spread feet, “I see fire burning.”

Xander swallowed.

Then Spike did.


	3. Housewarming Gifts

“Spike?”

“Yes, luv?”

“Why am I cuffed to the bed?”

“You were thrashing in your sleep.  Right annoying, it was.”

“Oh.  Okay.  I’m in your lap, too.”

“Technically that’s  _over_  my lap, but yes.  You are.”

Slow, deep breath.  “Why am I lying in your lap, Spike?”

“Told you.  You were thrashin’ about and I didn’t feel like being bruised by your great hammy fists.”

Beat.

“So you put me over your lap and cuffed me to the bedframe?”

“Well, yeah.”  So well trained, his boy was.  Caught on right quick, what with the erection slowly growing against his leg.  “I like you that way.”

“You like me hand-cuffed, face down in your  _lap_  because—ow!”

“You,” Spike admonished in a perfectly neutral tone, as though they were discussing what they were going to do today.  Which they were.  He smacked the other cheek for good measure.  “Are a very bad boy.”

That required two swats.  Spike wondered if he should tell Xander that he could hear and feel those grins without ever needing to see them.  But that would mean giving up his unfair advantage and, well,  _evil._   Besides.  They made him feel kinda gooshy inside—which was probably a very good reason  _not_  to tell.  Vampires didn’t get gooshy.  Or didn’t admit to it.  It was in the manual, somewhere.

“Did you hit your head?”  Xander was wheezing slightly, sounded awfully funny. “Do you  _remember_  who you are, Spike?  Because you calling me evil is—like comparing me to something I really can’t think of when your hand is doing that to my ass.”

“Not my memory you should be questioning, pet.”  And if he brushed just  _there. . ._

“Spiiiiiike!”

Well, there was a  _reason_  he’d made Xander get an apartment with sound-proofed walls.

“Yes, pet?”

Xander’s head popped up for a second, flashing a boyish grin.  “You’re evil.”  Dropping his head back down, he snuggled in closer.  Well, as much the ropes would let him.

Spike grinned delightedly, leaning down to place a kiss in the center of Xander’s back.  “Why, thank you, pet.  I’m so glad you’ve noticed.”

The sound of panting was a lovely way to start a lazy Sunday morning.  Not that this was news, of course, but reaffirming it never hurt.  Especially when Xander was writhing like he didn’t know what to do with his body.  Silly boy.  He should know much, much better by now.

His next smack made one cheek wiggle as the other tensed appealingly.  Spike wanted to bite along the musculature, but that would change the game.

“Ow!  Again!”  More grinning that made his skin shiver accompanied the comment.  The silly brat was laughing into the pillow, although Xander had made  _some_  attempt to infuse the appropriate sounds of hurt and dismay.  Not that they were very successful.  His hand wasn’t even tingling, yet.

“So sorry, pet, did that hurt?”

Much longer pause while Xander visibly tried to decide which answer would be more. . . beneficial.  “I’m a bad boy?”

Three smacks in quick succession, much harder than the playful ones before.  Xander gasped and clutched at the nylon rope hooking him to the bed-posts.  “Yes, you are, pet.  Do you know  _why_  you’re a bad boy?”

“I, um. . .  I left your packet of blood out yesterday?”  Which was something  _else_  Spike had to talk to him about, since the damned thing had almost coagulated by the time he found it.  Good thing he’d been hungry.

One  _hard_  slap at the very bottom of those tempting cheeks.  Xander jumped and squeaked, babbling something about ‘sorry’ and ‘bad’ and what was that about the table?

“No, pet, although we’re going to have a long discussion on the various eating habits we don’t like but still have to—hm, tolerate.”  The shivering below was  _not_  due to cold—it was too bloody hot in the bedroom for him to be cold—and Spike tried not to preen.  Yeah, he had a sexy voice.  What?

“Okay.  So. . . was it that thing with the ice cream?  ’Cause I know you were planning to make sundaes with Dawn.”

No, it wasn’t the thing with the ice cream and Xander had already bought two more containers for tomorrow night, which the brat knew, so he was just being obstinate, now.

Spike knew how to deal with obstinate.

His hand  _was_  stinging after this next volley of hits, but only pleasantly so.  Xander was making fake-sobbing noises, his arse just slightly pink.  Big faker.  Spike watched Xander’s legs kick out.  Strong legs.  Maybe he should tie them down, too.

“Hey—Spike—you  _stopped_ —”

Easily sliding free, Spike tied Xander’s legs to the bed posts with the ropes still there from the  _last_  time they’d played this game.  Well, a similar game.  Then he slid back underneath, relying on preternatural strength and balance and the appreciation for a bit of pain to position his legs correctly.  Xander’s butt was now high in the air.  His erection swung between Spike’s legs and the sheets.  Didn’t really touch either.

Xander thrust experimentally, anyway, because he was a stubborn git and had to see for himself.  Not that Spike minded the stubbornness.  The whining, he could do without.  “Spike!  No fair!”

 _“I’m_  no fair?”  Spike stared down at his lover, wondering if he’d been possessed again.

“You  _are_  going to spank me, right?”  Now where the hell did Xander get off, sounding all patient and condescending?

“You wanna do something else?”  Spike made himself sound doubtful, like he really would stop.  Which he would, if Xander really wanted him to.

“Spike!”  Well, then.  Looks like Xander didn’t want him to.

“But you’ve been a very bad boy, pet,” he murmured.  Grinning like the demon he was.  “So bad you can’t even remember it, can you?  No idea what’s got me so angry with you; why I want to take that white arse of yours and make it turn deep, dark red.  So you’re aching and throbbing an’ so hard for me, but this is punishment, Xand.  Not gonna let you come.  Not gonna come until I  _say_  you can.”

Hm.  Maybe he’d have to dial down the dirty talk.  Xander was making noises like he was going to come  _now,_  before they’d even started.

They couldn’t have that, now.

Xander gave a despairing moan when Spike slid the cock-ring on, twisting his head around to glare.  “You  _know_  I hate these, Spike!  C’mon, let me—eep!”

Well, it wasn’t really an ‘eep’ sound, but Spike wasn’t sure what else to call the high-pitched noise his lover made when he pinched high on the inside of the right thigh, where Xander was oh,  _so_  sensitive.  What had the boy been thinking, telling Spike about that. . .

“Are you going to behave now?” Spike asked carefully.  Xander’s head dropped without answering, burying it in the pillows.  “Because, you know, I can stop.  The paper’s still outside.  I need to go get it before the old blue-hair down in 15A steals it.  Again.  And creases the comics page because she’s too bloody cheap to buy her own.”

Xander was doing that muffled laughter thing again, which would just never do.  This wasn’t about making him  _laugh._  That happened with disturbing frequency, hardly any effort needed at all.  This was about Spike  _punishing_  him.

But Xander laughing was almost as lovely as Xander moaning and riding him at breakneck speed and oh, yeah, he could make Xander do that afterwards, couldn’t he?  When he was all toasty warm and sizzling.  Mm.  Toasted Xander.

His hand came down without him really telling it to, landing some medium-strength blows on thigh and arse.  Xander choked back whatever he was going to say, riding out the feel of Spike smacking him evenly, like a baker properly kneading dough.  Had to keep it nice and balanced.

“Do you know why you’re a bad boy?” Spike asked, steadily smacking away.  Xander was having a hard time breathing, now, smile wiped away clean.  “Do you remember how angry you made me, hm?”

“When?”  It took three tries to get that word out, but his boy was persistent.  “Yesterday?  Or maybe the day before?  Or the one before that?”

It didn’t actually sound like that, of course.  More like, “Ye-yes—harder!—yester—yesterd _aaay!”_   And that was only the second word.

His hand was nicely warm now, so he briefly switched to the right.  The angle was bad, but it let his left hand cool down a little.  For later.

“No, not then.  It’s been a while, pet, but I think you can remember.”

 _Extra_  hard smack and Xander eeped again.

“How long ago are we talking?”  Which took a good five minutes to get out, but Spike was more than content to wait.  Well, to spank while he waited.

“Couple months ago, when you told me about a very,” hard smack, “naughty secret of yours.  ’Bout sneaking out to see them that you shouldn’t have, late one Halloween night?  When you should’ve been home in your warm,” smack, “snug,” smack, “ _safe,_ ” smack, “bed?”

“What are you—oh!”  The cartoon lightbulb made sable hair glow prettily and Spike knew he was in trouble when he could see an imaginary lightbulb going off.  But it wasn’t just the mental leaps and connections that he’d been waiting for, but the heat and the look in brown eyes he couldn’t see but still knew was there.  The one that said Xander knew about the manual.  And didn’t mind not throwing it out.

“Oh, come on, Spike, the windows were covered in black gunk!”  Xander was squirming again, sounding appropriately defensive.  “And nobody knew I was there—not you, not the minions, not even Drusilla!”  Which made Spike remember when Xander had made  _him_  play Drusilla.  Three  _days_  before the brat had let him come, that time.

Spike blinked, realizing his mind had wandered.

 _“Bad_  boy!”  Maybe he should go get the newspaper, since rolling it up would make a good prop right about now.  Except that would mean moving.  Instead he began to spank Xander nice and hard, breaking up the patterns with some random slaps that went up his spine a little and down to the back of his knees, which were extra sensitive.

Xander was groaning pretty much non-stop, now, and breathing could become an issue.  But not yet.  Because Spike  _was_  angry, a little bit.  Because being scared made him angry.  And thinking about when he wasn’t there to protect Xander—might have been the thing  _hurting_  Xander—always made him scared.  Scared enough that one day, he might even admit it.

For now, though, he was content to smack away at Xander’s ass.  The sound of flesh hitting flesh had always calmed him and the feel of his hand against warm skin was even better.  But it was the way Xander arched into his touch, trying to shove himself up higher to meet each blow that made it so good.  The sounds he made, breathlessly begging for it to be harder and more and god, so good, and Spike, and love, love, love.

The gooshy feeling was back but Spike didn’t mind it at all.

When his arm started to burn a little, he knew he was at the right spot.  Xander’s bottom was dark red and Spike knew if he went any further it’d start to hurt in the bad way.

Slathering lube on himself took seconds and then he was pushing inside.  Xander pushed back.

Untying Xander without slipping free was easy.  Getting Xander facing him wasn’t, so he quickly pulled free—whapped Xander once when he moaned—and rolled his lover onto his back.  Sliding back in, he rolled  _them_  so that Spike was on the bottom.  He grinned up at Xander’s red face and offered both hands.  “Ride me?”

“Gimme—gimme a minute.  Dizzy.  Need blood in legs.”

“But it’s all in your cock.”

They both looked down: big, purple cock.  Xander grinned and grabbed Spike’s hands.  “Oh, yeah.  Good point.”

Xander started slowly, but Spike didn’t mind.  He had a Xander bouncing on his cock.  And soon that Xander was bouncing faster.  Then a lot faster.  So fast that Spike could see each muscle and bit of flab Xander didn’t have bouncing, too.

He knew Xander wouldn’t think so, but it was so. . . hot.

Eventually, Spike yanked his hands free, grabbed Xander’s hips and slammed them down hard.  He cried out as he came deep within Xander and Xander cried out as his sore, abused arse was ground onto Spike.

It was a while before Spike could think again.

“That was nice, pet,” he said when he could.  “Sleepy now.”  Spike relaxed slowly against the bed.  Sighed contentedly.  Even stretched a little.

Xander glared.

Spike smiled lazily.

Xander glared harder.

Spike glanced at the clock before giving Xander a smile that was probably gooshy.

Xander  _snarled._

“Oh, did you want something, pet?”

“Spike!  Either take this cock-ring off and let me come or—”

“Or what?”  A sudden burst of energy had them flipped back over, Xander’s hands stretched above his head.

Xander glared hardest.  “Or I’ll tell Buffy why you won’t eat Cherry Garcia anymore.”

Oh.  That—would be bad.  But it wouldn’t do to let Xander  _know_  that.  Spike grinned wickedly, the one that made Xander tense and look nervous when they were out in public.  In private, though, it made him throb.

“Well?”

“I dunno, she might like knowing that.”  No, she really wouldn’t.  Because Spike wouldn’t like it at all.  “Maybe I should tell her?”

It was definitely a growl this time.

“Oh, all right then.  Demanding git.  Hang on.”

Pulling out of Xander took some concentration.  And robbed Xander of  _his_  quite nicely.  Shimmying down, Spike positioned his mouth right over Xander’s cock.  Glanced up.  “You know, we really should tell her.”

Deftly unsnapping a cock-ring while deep-throating a screaming Xander was a skill he’d worked very hard to perfect.

“So.”  Spike waited until Xander sounded less like a freight train.  “Are you going to behave now?”

Xander grinned without opening his eyes.  “No?”

Spike grinned back.  “Good.”


	4. Foul Play

Spike was screaming at the tv.  This wasn’t an unusual thing in the Harris household, but the diatribe of virulent and possibly not-English terms being hurled at the 35" flat screen tv, bought for one bored and whining house-vamp, was unusually scathing.  He’d yelled at the newspaper first, tossing away the sports section and stomping over to listen to one of the thousands of sports channels they had.  There had been maybe five minutes of announcer-voices, not enough for Xander to understand what had put his lover in such a bad mood.

“You can’t do that!” Spike finished, voice growing hoarse from his ranting.  “It’s  _Beckham._   You don’t bloody well sell him off just for a few bob!”

Xander knew that ‘bob’ was money.  He wasn’t sure how  _much_  money, since Spike’s answers changed depending on his mood, but he knew that it was more than a few ‘pounds’ and therefore in the ‘a lot’ category.

“And to blinkin’  _Spain?”_   His window of opportunity to get a word in edgewise vanished before he’d realized it was there, Spike off and running again.  Fortunately, Xander enjoyed these surprisingly uncommon fits.  He usually learned some great insults.  And watching Spike pace in a pair of sweats and a frayed undershirt was always entertaining.

Angry Spike was hot.  Duh.

“You know, if you’re that bloody desperate for a few quid—” ‘Quid’ was also money and often used interchangeably with ‘bob’.  One day he was going to have to look these terms up, just for his own peace of mind—“sell another advert-gig, it’s what he spends all his free time doing regardless.  Or sell somebody else!  The Norwegian—Solskjaer.  Don’t want to lose him, very good on the closer, but he’s a better choice than  _Beckham_.  Have they all gone mad?”

When Spike got upset—really upset, not just pissed off or annoyed—his accent changed.  The lower-class slang he liked to cultivate melted away to reveal the still slightly prissy, oddly proper, and sweetly possessive man underneath.  It didn’t happen all at once, of course, but the angrier he was, the less harsh he sounded.

Xander loved it—but didn’t force Spike to use it very often.  If it came out in the middle of sex, well, who would object to orgasms so powerful you blacked out?  But since Spike sounding prim and proper usually meant he was scared out of his mind, Xander had developed a love-hate relationship with it.

Not this time, though.  This was just Spike getting worked up over his beloved Manchester Utd.  And the secret crush he had on Beckham, the one Xander had sworn never to tell anyone about and he actually didn’t mind the shirt and shoes Spike sometimes asked him to wear.  Although the cleats were  _hell_  on the bedding.

“Xander!  Those insufferable tossers are going to sell off Beckham to Barcelona!”

 _Oh!_   The lightbulb went ‘ding’—which sounded just wrong, somehow—and Xander suddenly understood what Spike was going on about.  “Er, they’re selling him?  Isn’t he, well, one of their best players?”

Spike looked devastated.  “He’s a national hero!  You don’t just sell off the most popular player in the  _world.”_

Xander thought about the sports he kept half an eye on.  “Trading happens?” he ventured.

 _“Not_  with Beckham!  He—he  _is_  England!  How’re we going to have a decent chance at competing if our best player and—and— _icon_  is off in Spain?”

“You find new players?”  It worked in basketball, anyway.  Um.  He thought.  Okay, so he wasn’t a big sports guy.  Dawn’s voice floated through his mind, gleefully relating a few choice stereotypes.  He flicked it irritably away.  Screwing a vampire, no matter how male said vampire was, did not automatically mean the sheets had to be paisley, dammit.

Their sheets were blood red.

“Are you even listening?  This is Beckham!  You just don’t do that!  Does—does Man U even  _want_  to be competitive anymore?”

“Uh.”  This was one of those ‘no-win’ situations.  Any answer Xander could possibly give would result in Spike ranting at  _him_  for a while.  Since he was the untutored American who could never understand a proper game of football—which did  _not_  have pointy ends on the ball, thank you—despite Spike’s many heartfelt and sincere attempts to correct this horribly glaring oversight in his lover.

They’d had those conversations before.

Determined to prevent yet another one from happening—he didn’t want to have to buy  _more_  new sheets—Xander decided to switch tactics.

“They must be going mad.  Utterly barmy.  There’s no other explanation.  Xander, you wouldn’t mind if I hopped a flight back to Merry Ole, would you?  Got a few favors I can call in and—Xander?  What the hell are you—”

Xander bit down  _very_  lightly, just enough to. . . clue Spike in.

Big, rounded eyes stared at him, startled and just a bit dismayed.  “Xander.   _What_  are you doing?”

His tongue slid under foreskin, the very point of his tongue tracing a random pattern.

“Oh.”  Spike glanced up at the announcers who were now talking about horse-racing.  At least, Xander thought it was horse racing.  The Belmont was a track, right?

Then the heavy flesh on his tongue twitched and Xander stopped caring.

“Er, now, I’m not asking you to stop,” Spike started as lips slid down to the base of his cock, which always made him squeak.  Which made Xander chuckle.  Then there was more squeaking.  “But—oh!—what brought this on?”

Xander rolled his eyes and then glared upward.  Didn’t Spike know it wasn’t polite to speak with your mouth full?  He bit a little harder, teeth making indentations in soft skin.

“Eep!”  Panting, Spike fell back against the sofa.  “Never mind,” he gasped out.  “You just—you keep on—I thought they wanted to sell him to Barcelona!  Now they want to—yeah, cause his wife is gonna love living in—hey!”

Closing his hand a little tighter around Spike’s balls, Xander used his free hand to point at the remote.  Spike, still blitzed from the painpleasure, looked at Xander’s hand and then his face.  Then his hand again.  _Then_  realization dawned.

“I am not giving you the remote control!”  Snatching the item in question, Spike held it above his head and behind the couch, expression utterly outraged.

Oh, so that’s how it was?  Xander bit a third time, loving the way Spike’s eyes spun, sliding a single finger down past Spike’s balls to the strip of skin Spike hated.  Because playing with that was a guaranteed way of making Spike come.

And  _after_  those orgasms, he was a nice, pliant Spike who did everything Xander told him to, just to get Xander to touch him there again.

“Hey, no, you little—I’m trying to watch the telly, here—no, please, no, Xan— _Xander!”_

Xander smiled around the cock still in his mouth, scraping a nail over the same path.  Spike gave a full-body twitch, liquid sounds coming from his mouth.  His hips started thrusting uncontrollably and Xander replaced his mouth with his hand, knowing he stood a good chance of getting choked if he didn’t.

Settling onto his heels, Xander stopped playing long enough to push Spike’s sweats a bit further down, repositioning his hips so that he was just barely sitting upright on the sofa.  There.  Much easier.  Holding cock and balls with one hand, Xander trailed a slow, wet lick down Spike’s perineum.  That earned him a strangled shout, so he did it again.  And again.  And again.

Pretty soon, Spike was a screaming, writhing mass of nerves, babbling desperately with the need to come.  Xander sat back and surveyed his handiwork.  There wasn’t much coherency in Spike’s words, but the occasional ‘Xan’ and ‘please’ did make it through.

Not a single ‘Beckham’.

Pleased, Xander pressed tongue and finger on a place he’d found after much trial and error.  The balls half-resting on his forehead immediately contracted and Spike went absolutely rigid.

Then there was howling.

Xander continued licking as the sound died away, Spike slumping into unconsciousness.  This was  _much_  better, he thought as he climbed onto the sofa and took the remote from Spike’s unresisting hands.  Hey, cartoons were on!

The show was almost finished by the time Spike started making coming-to noises, his body shifting to drape bonelessly over Xander’s.  “Maarsligot?” he asked.  Xander didn’t bother responding, since even if it was repeated slowly it  _still_  wouldn’t be English.  Instead he just spread his legs a little as a hand landed on his sweats and tugged the material down.

“Mm, nice,” Xander hummed as he was stroked and pulled.

Spike murmured his agreement, curling up closer.  His eyes were shut, his expression extremely content.  Threading his free arm around Spike’s waist, Xander decided that he could handle a morning like this.  Watch Spike get pissed, have sex.  Watch a little tv.

“Hey, see if there’s a footie game on?”

So long as he didn’t mention—

“Up for a game later?  I can dig the shoes and the jersey out. . .”

Xander thumped Spike.  Hard.

“What!  I just though maybe we could play goalie.”

Xander thumped Spike again.

“Oh, fine.  American.”

Then Spike’s mouth was busy.


End file.
